Exit, pursued by an elephant

Kandy's ticket prices are a reflection of the ground itself. On the one side, they are incredibly steep - a pew in the "special" enclosure at third man costs 6000 rupees for five days. On the other side, they tumble away down the hill, and cost next to nothing.

On Wednesday, it was hard to tell which seat was which, as the fans milled round the boundary with barely a flicker of a ticket. But today the ground authorities have taken a tougher stance, and as a consequence, almost the entire crowd is packed in among the hot-dog stands and soft-drinks stalls of the 30-rupee section.

The best of the cheap seats are without doubt the wobbly iron stilt-benches that are congregated in front of the Old Trinitians' Sports Club at deep midwicket. Only the early birds have any hope of bagging one of these, although it's just as well that the morning session is a soporific one - they have an uneasy tendency to sway and topple at the slightest hint of excitement.

The effect, according to one England fan, is rather like being sat on the back of an elephant while out hunting for tigers. It is an arresting image, although one wonders quite how he knows this. If Colombo Zoo finds that one of its big cats is missing, it now knows where to look.

At lunchtime, a real-life elephant plods around the boundary, with an entourage of drummers and dancers lining its path. Admittedly it is only there as a glorified advertising hoarding, although judging by those bench issues, it takes some skill to balance on Nelly's back, while holding a placard in one hand, as the rider does in order to advertise Kandy's cultural pageant on Sunday evening.

The elephant itself is dressed from tusk to toe in purple, with bells and chains dangling from its waist and a handler by its side, who feeds it trayfuls of bananas to prevent a heavyweight mutiny. Even the raucous stereo system is turned down briefly as the party passes by, and no other sideshow has yet managed to achieve that.

For some spectators, elephants notwithstanding, the 30-rupee seats are 30 rupees too many. But unless you are a monk in the neighbouring research institute, there is only one place to obtain a free view of the day's play - up on the hill behind the old pavilion. As it turns out, for one day only, there is more than just a view on offer.

It is a steady but untaxing slog to reach the vantage point, and along the way, a posse of policemen stand idly in the undergrowth, peering through the long grass for a sneaky glimpse of the pitch. They've got rather a large green grandstand roof obscuring much of their view, but that does as least give them an alibi if a superior happens to pass.

Further up the road, a thin brown path cuts across the hillside towards a gaggle of local spectators, some of whom are just pausing for the odd delivery as they walk towards their houses, which are set deep in the jungle and invisible from ground level. Just above them, however, in a fenced-off garden, there's a gathering of England fans and flags.

This house, which was almost derelict three years ago, has been bought and renovated by an English couple, who live there with their two adopted children and three disarmingly friendly Dobermans. At the moment, the ex-pats are busy entertaining their guests with beer and sandwiches, more than ample solace as they watch England's bowlers being flogged to all parts by Sri Lanka's tail.